Nirvana
by infernallyminded
Summary: She was an upper middle class girl bred for a wholesome, innocent future. He was cocky and violent – a tornado of darkness equipped with a motorbike. In theory, they are like oil and water. As Clary discovers the hidden world of street racing and clandestine affairs, however, she slowly unveils the true person behind his golden eyes.


Hi to all my lovely readers!

Yes, I am now on holidays so you can expect updates on (hopefully) all of my stories. Before that, however, I would like to introduce my newest story, _Nirvana._ One of my favourite movies is _Tre Metri sopra il Cielo, _an Italian romance revolving around a 'good girl' and a 'street thug.' Sounds cheesy, but the movie is brilliant. I could not help but thrust Jace and Clary into these character roles! Hopefully your interest will be piqued by the end of this chapter.

I've also become quite lazy and have not been very vigorous in my editing. I really need to find a Beta (hint hint?)

Happy reading :)

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'_Alison has the best tits in the entire world._' The neon green paint, fruit of a stealthy hand that at night had grasped a spray can with the hope of creating splendour disguised as written impudence, flashed on the flat face of the Fatum bridge in the quick flicker of headlights of a passing-by car. The graffiti, relished by those involved and reviled by the greater society, was both a piece of great workmanship – if its very existence did not breach the law – as well as a mark of the nature of the teenager: bold, wild, angry and unflinching in the face of constraints. Many a passer-by would ignore the graffiti statement entirely. A small few may distantly wonder who this Alison was and what encouraged the assumed male to paint the statement across the face of a frequently used bridge, boldly visible to the public.

Nearby, a great willow tree with its overarching branches and deep folds stood strong despite its years. The tree had seen the face of culprit, but had never been able to unveil the truth. This secret, forged in its peripheral vision, would remain so – just like all of the hidden kisses and clandestine meetings it had seen in its life.

It was just a little deeper into the city, down through a colourful laneway laced with tiny bakeries and knick-knack stores, where he sat. The midmorning sun filtered through the maple trees perfectly aligned by the clean, hollow-free asphalt road. His bronze hair which had spent many years in the confines of gel, hung rebelliously near his neck, the untameable curls caressing his ears. His hair was what hairdressers dreamed of and girls yearned to run their fingers through. His Levi's leather jacket was aged with wear and many memories, obviously missing a button as it sat hazardously on the shiny black body of his motorbike. Its curved body glinted almost provocatively under the morning sun, its silhouette reminiscent of the gentle dips of the female physique. His white shirt hugged his torso, highlighting the plains of his chest and tightening of his muscles with every movement he made. A cigarette was grasped between his lips, sunglasses covering his strange golden eyes that made many a girl swoon. He had a habit of running his hands through his hair – perhaps the only piece of vulnerability in the otherwise debauched and defiant air he possessed. He had a surprisingly _beautiful _smile – bright and light just like a breath of fresh air to a drowning man – but there were only a few in the world who had experienced the great fortune of seeing it. The boy-man sitting beside him, devouring a handmade roll was one of these few people. Simon Lewis was of considerably average height (only two-point-five centimetres below average he claimed) and perhaps a little lanky. He was prone to committing petty crimes – pickpocketing, stealing, public nuisance – sometimes for money and sometimes just for the sake of it. That is how their crowd functioned. Despite this, however, Simon Lewis unintentionally oozed a sense of innocent naivety unlike the boy beside him. It was incredibly subtle given his rough reputation, but it was still there.

The two sat on the park bench, watching the flood of cars sporadically forced to stop at the traffic lights. Jace Wayland liked to do this, just sit outside the little run down Italian bakery and watch cars pass by. It reminded him of when he used to play with his little toy cars, lining them up in perfect rows, sorted by colour, size and brand. On this side of town, all the cars were expensive and luxurious. If it were not for the bakery, Jace would never willingly step foot in St Xavier's. Pockets of the city oozed money. Structures of cement and iron towered over the streets, overlooking the labyrinth of cars and bikes and buses and trams zooming across the streets, leaving behind nothing but tendrils of smoke and echoes of blaring horns. He always felt a strange choking sensation when he stepped foot into the heart of the city – almost as if St Xavier's sucked the very life out of him.

_It would make sense, _he thought.

The specific beep of a car horn broke him out of his riviere. The silver 2013 Mercedes-Benz SL65 AMG was able to pull a reaction from him – a slow rise of the eyebrows – but it was the person _inside _seated inside the vehicle that made Jace pause. Nails half-bitten off, red hair knotting slightly in the tangle of the wind, she sat shot-gun beside what he guessed was her father. White-blonde hair styled almost regally, cold blue eyes, an expensive looking suit – the man's wealth was obvious.

The Mercedes passed him the very moment his cigarette, now burnt to its stem, fell from his lips to the cement pathway. He stood suddenly, making his way to the black Honda VF 750 model. He mounted the bike, turned the key and revved the engine – a mechanical mating call to those who spoke its language.

Simon's brows met, confusion painted across his face. He rose to his feet. 'Jace, what -"

His slight Irish accented voice was drowned out by the squeal of tires. The bike threaded its way through the flood of cars, moving from lane to lane, left to right, sometimes fast and sometimes slow.

The sun was rising, it was a beautiful morning. The girl in the Mercedes was on her way to being dropped off at school whilst he was still awake from the previous night. It would have been a day like any other if that silver 2013 Mercedes-Benz SL65 AMG had not been forced to stop right in front of him due to the flicker of a traffic light. The world had thrown something incredibly sweet at him – something that made him pause in his tracks unlike anything else. Jace's sweet tooth could not be ignored.

Once again, some God took pity on him, making yet another traffic light turn red.

He rolled to a stop by her side of the car, watching her. The hardtop cover was folded down and the first thing he saw was a shock of red hair, the colour of hot popping embers. Her skin was the colour of ocean-deep pearls, and just as luminous. She had a novel resting open on her lap, a pen twitching in her hand.

"Aye!"

She jerked towards him, surprise painted across her face. Greeting him with green eyes and a scrunched up nose. He sat on his bike, shoulders wide and firm beneath his white tshirt, his hands slightly more tanned than the rest of his body. His eyes hidden from her behind thick black Ray-bans, but he could see her perfectly. Her face was plain but her eyes, the colour of emeralds, entranced him, leaving him feeling uncomfortably spell-bound. He ignored the sensation.

"Wanna go for a spin?"

She raised an eyebrow. "No, I'm going to school."

"Well, don't go then. Pull a sicky. There, problem solved." He pointed to an extravagant fountain in the distance. "I'll pick you up by Bowler's."

"Excuse me," she forced a painfully fake smile. "I think I didn't phrase that properly. What I meant was that I don't _want_ to go for a ride with you."

He smirked. "Look, I could show you a good time…"

"I'm sure you would."

"It would soothe your soul, solve all of your problems," he nodded in the direction of her novel "provide a better distraction…"

"I don't need distractions."

"I'm quite sure you do."

Jace took back his thanks to the Gods because it was in that very moment that the lights turned green once more. And yet, as the Mercedes raced forward, leaving Jace and his bike in its diesel smoke, the man couldn't for the life of him wipe off the smirk stretching across his lips.

In that very Mercedes, the father turned towards his daughter. "Who was that, Clarissa? One of your friends?"

She sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "No, dad_. _He was just some idiot."

After a few seconds, the pair could hear the now familiar roar of the man's motorbike. He suddenly appeared once more near Clary's side of the car. His right arm was almost touching hers. If she paid close attention to his fingers, she would have been able to notice that he didn't grasp the clutch as tightly as a motorbike rider should. Even if she did notice and went so far as to question him, he would have avoided answering. His arm wasn't bothering him as much anymore. Sometimes, there were throbbing aches or the nerves in his fingers played up – like on a day like that very day – but it usually faded away soon enough. This explanation, however, was not needed as she did not ask and he did not answer.

The red light permitted him to grasp the window which the girl's elbow rested against, using it as support rather than placing one foot down on the road. The girl didn't seem to mind. The only person who seemed to mind was the father.

"What the hell is this piece of trash up to? What does he want with you?"

"Relax, dad. I'll deal with it."

The girl turns defiantly towards Jace, irritation sparking in her eyes.

"Do you seriously have nothing better to do than to stalk me whilst my own _father _is in the car?"

He pretends to think for a moment. "No, not really."

"Well then, find something."

He shoots her a devilish smirk, bursting with innuendo. "I've already found something that I like."

She purses her lips, snapping the novel on her lap shut. "Oh, and pray tell, what is it?"

"To go for a ride on my bike with you clutching at my waist. Come on, it will be fun. We'll drive fast along the south coast road and you will experience a sense of freedom like no other. Then, I'll treat you to some brunch before I drop you off at school. I promise."

She snorted. "I have a feeling that your promises mean very little."

"True," he grinned cheekily, "see? You already know a lot about me. Be honest, you already like me, eh?"

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. She rolled her eyes before pulling another book out of her handbag, this one handwritten. A notebook.

"Alright, I think that's enough chit-chat. I have to focus on my real problems now," she declared, gesturing towards the chicken-scratch scribbling on the lilac-tinted pages.

He raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly are these problems?"

"My English mid-term."

"Oh, I thought you meant sex."

His comment forced a reaction out of her – shock and embarrassment – her cheeks burned red.

He loved every second.

He quickly realised, however, that she was no longer playing along. She did not laugh – not even a fake one. She did not smile, either.

"Remove your hand from my window."

"And where would you like me to put it instead?"

She glared at him, darting forward to press a button beside the handbrake. A mechanical beeping chirped and the hardtop began to fold close as if it had begun to rain. Jace waited until the very last moment before he removed his hand. He caught her angry gaze behind the car window, smirking at her once more.

"I'll see you soon"

"No," she mouthed, before she glanced away from him.

He grinned before he revved the engine and surpassed the car with a mechanical growl that scattered a group of white doves lazily pecking the ground for worms. The Mercedes continued on its journey to Bella's school, now calm without the male disturbance.

"These teenage biker gangs make me sick!" The girl's father seethed. "Just two weeks ago, one of them began a brawl with some friends of Despero's son, Gabriel. You be careful, Clarissa. They're as vile as vermin, but more dangerous."

"They're just a pack of losers, dad." She sighed, reopening her novel. "Nothing at all to worry about."

His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

"And what did he mean by your _'problems'?" _He growled, ignoring her response. "I want you stay away from them, Clarissa. Especially _that one._ I demand of it."

"I don't have any problems, dad. He was just some stupid boy with too much time on his hands."

"He didn't look like a boy."

Clary ignored her father's comment. "Besides, I'll never see him again. There's nothing to worry about."

Clarissa Fray didn't know, however, how mistaken she truly was. On _both _accounts.


End file.
